


not so much an escape as a coming home

by ephemeraa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, F/M, Femdom, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post S4, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Vacation, Wolf Derek, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeraa/pseuds/ephemeraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sinks to his knees in the sand, at her feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not so much an escape as a coming home

**Author's Note:**

> This definitely was spawned from the headcanon that Braeden blows all her mercenary money on really expensive all-inclusive resort trips. 
> 
> Also, we all know that Derek hale has the mother of all praise kinks (next to Dean Winchester).

Braeden’s bags are half packed by the time he gets home from Scott’s that night. There’s an awkward silence as he stands near her, watching her move shotguns and hooded sweaters into her duffle bags as if he isn’t there. He jumps to conclusion fast, breath sharpening in his chest like an ice pick.

 

“You’re taking off now,” he says, not phrasing it like a question. Derek’s learned to accept things, to not question them, to not pick at a scab. He hopes that’s not what this is between them-- a scab. Already, he starts dissecting his every move this week, trying to find where he went wrong.

 

“I’m going….” she keeps folding clothes as she talks. “To Costa Rica.”

 

“What’s in Costa Rica?” He thinks, _no werewolves, no deadpools, no assassins, no berserkers._

 

“A reservation at the Playa Conchal. Five stars. White sand beaches, all inclusive massages, bottomless Mai Tais, a king sized tempurpedic memory foam bed.” She shivers pleasantly when she mentions the bed.

 

“Sounds expensive.”

 

“Worth it.”

 

It only takes him a few more minutes of quiet panic to realize that she’s folding his t-shirts, his boxers. There’s _two_ tickets to Costa Rica, sitting on the table next to her guns.

 

He’s never been to a resort. Laura didn’t like airplanes. He spent millennia inside her camaro when he was younger, drifting from city to city. But their travelling was usually out of necessity, not leisure. There was that one winter they decided to drive up to Vancouver for no real reason, but it had ended with a blizzard and a head on collision with a transport truck, and them wandering around in the freezing Canadian wilderness for two days, trying to find a car to steal.

 

When he asks her,

 

“Why are we going to Costa Rica?”

 

She says,

 

“Baby, you need a vacation.”

 

***

 

The hotel room is lit in orange light. It’s all candles and sunset when they arrive that night. He feels awkward and out of place for the first half hour, moving his suitcase from the desk, to the bed, to the dresser, to the desk again. He can tell that she is more in tune with this setting. She orders them extra towels with a practiced tone on the phone with the front desk, adjusts the thermostat to the right temperature, lets the doors to the balcony open. She kicks off her pants, stretches out on the bed like a cat, feeling the sheets. The sheets have a thread count of 1500.

 

She summons him over with a crook of her finger as the breeze blows out one of the candles near the window. He takes off some of his clothes, but not all of them, because it’s hard to be naked in a new place like this. He might have trouble sleeping. It’s hard to be vulnerable.

 

He crawls up to her, letting her move his limbs into the right position so they’re tangled up, chest to chest. He runs the tips of his fingers over her bare legs, coming to rest his hand over her pelvis. He starts to slip inside of her underwear, but she hums and says,

 

“Too tired. We can fuck all day tomorrow.”

 

He withdraws his hand, kissing her collarbone. She tastes like the air here-- salty, fresh with ozone. They roll under the covers, both looking ahead at the spread of beautiful furniture and the flat screen television, and the mini bar that’s stocked with alcohol that’s useless to Derek.

 

“This is a nice room,” he whispers.

 

He sleeps just fine.

 

***

 

“Mmmm, that’s it, baby boy.”

 

His ears twitch at her words. He makes a small noise, burying his tongue deeper into her cunt. It makes his cock stand straight up from the root, aching inside his briefs, ignored and practically pulsing. He wiggles his hips against the bed for friction as he makes her come. Here, he’s warm and secure, and she has her thighs clamped around his head to hold him in place. One of his hands curls around her hips to rub at her clit, slow and lazy because it’s still morning, and he’s still sleepy.

 

He’s made her come twice already, but keeps going, holding her hips down when they arch forward. She’s not as sensitive now, so he pulls her back to expose her clit, pink and red from the attention. Carefully, he touches his tongue right to it, just gently, so he doesn’t hurt her. She squeals, high pitched and hoarse, and when he does it again, she almost whines out,

 

“ _Make me come.’"_

 

Derek likes it when she tells him what to do. He’d like it even more if she demanded. He remembers the way she said, I’m gonna teach you how to bend, and how he’d felt his cock twitch, how he’d thought about the ways she could bend him over the desk, and what she’d do to him. He wants to be under her thumb. The thought of it is dirty and white hot.

 

When she’s close, she pushes his head away from her thighs. He meets her eyes for a split second and she nods once, chest heaving.

 

He quickly sits up on his knees, jerking his briefs down so his dick springs forward. She licks her lips at him.

 

“Hard,” she says firmly. She always wants it to be like this, to be hard and fast, with trembling thighs and held breaths. They both are red-faced and overworked, marathoning orgasms that could wipe out cities. He grabs her hips and simply pulls her down. He rubs his cock against her clit once, twice, and when her nails dig into his thighs, he drives forward, up and into her. She grits out between her teeth,

 

“Fucking _harder_.”

 

His chest burns hot from the irritation in her voice. He slams into her, skin hitting skin, cock warm and dragging against her insides. He does it over and over, trying not to come, holding it in so that he can keep going. It only lasts for thirty seconds. They’re both wet, making filthy noises. It splashes onto their thighs.

 

She actually screams when she comes, clenching around him, nails digging in, and then it’s too much for him to hold at bay. He lets out a long, loud groan that comes deep from the back of his spine, and he slips out of her a little, staggering as the come spurts out of him in ropes. She gasps, reaching down between their legs where they’re joined.

 

“Look at all that,” she says as she rubs his come into her clit, hissing. He does look, down at the sight of their sex, messy and gorgeous in a private way, and he collapses on top of her.

 

She rubs his head with one hand, pressing it against her chest. Her heart beat sounds like a drum from where he lays. This may be his favorite part of fucking her-- when they’re tired and still, with him softening inside her, sticky and spent, smelling like each other.

 

“That was good,” she says into his ear. He hums, hoping she’ll continue. Does she know what it does to him? “You were so good.”

 

He rubs his head into her shoulder, letting bending his neck so she can smooth his hair down. It’s an animal part of him that he’s never lost-- this need to burrow and preen and pant against her. It’s gotten bigger since his shift. The wolf used to be threaded into him, tied down to his molecules and instincts, mostly human, and now it’s more free. He can almost feel it pacing around in his head. Where Braeden goes, the wolf goes.

 

***

 

They have dinner in the hotel restaurant that’s full of mostly couples. The waiter makes a mistake and calls them Mr. and Mrs. Eames, which is the name Braeden gave to the front desk. Something about it makes his stomach flip in a pleasant way.  

 

When they’re waiting on the wine, she suddenly asks him,

 

“Do you miss being an alpha?”

 

It’s a big question, but Derek has a simple answer.

 

“No.”

 

“Why not? You’d be...impossibly strong. Now that you can--” she gestures to him generally, trying to be subtle without saying, _now that you can turn into a giant wolf._

 

He remembers being small and under the shadow of his mother in her full shift. Her beast was big and beautiful in ways that Derek isn’t. He doesn’t need that now. He’s happy to be small, dark and lithe, made of fur and teeth and bone. He’s a wolf in every sense when he shifts and that’s all that matters.

 

“I was...like a child, when I was alpha. My pack was--” he doesn’t want to get into the territory of Boyd and Erica, so he shakes his head. “I was looking for the wrong kind of power. I don’t think I was ever meant to be an alpha.”

 

He knows because not much has changed. He remembers hating the alien urge to force his hand on Erica when she was out of line, and the way he wanted to push Boyd down when he stood near him.  Deep in his chest, beyond the instincts, there was a wrongness to it that he always felt.

 

Mostly, he remembers the relief of the power draining out of him. He still feels that relief.

 

They eat the kind of food Derek hasn’t had the time to eat in a long while. He indulges in dessert, even, because Braeden pushes a plate of something smothered in a vanilla sauce toward him. While they eat, they speculate about the other hotel patrons, and who’s on their honeymoon, and who’s rich and used to these expensive vacations.

Derek notices a few drops of vanilla sauce on her fingers. He eyes them for a long time, letting his imagination run a bit wild. When she notices the mess, she smiles like a sly fox, and lifts her hand toward him.

 

“Lick it off,” she says. There’s a new tone to her voice, all knowing, and sweet, despite the order.

 

He doesn’t care that they’re in public. He laps at her skin once, twice, and then she withdraws as the waiter nears with the bill. He dissolves with it-- the taste of vanilla mixed with her skin, with the pungent remains of their sex.

 

Later, they walk on the beach outside of their room. The ocean is something Derek hasn’t heard in a long time. He’s content to shut up with her, to listen to the sounds. They don’t hold hands, but they walk close, with their shoulders brushing.

 

“Stop here for a sec,” she says when they’re farther away from the resort. He can make her out perfectly, even in the darkness of the new moon.

 

She presses his collarbone, pushing him back from her a little, facing him. Slowly, she works her hand to his shoulder, and then she pushes him down hard. At first he resists, until he realizes what she’s doing. He sinks to his knees in the sand, at her feet.

 

“Look here,” she says.

 

He’s shy about it, but eventually he moves his line of sight from her hips to her face with the tilt of his chin. This simple movement of his neck sends blood racing below his waist. The wolf wants to tear out of him, but he keeps it locked in the calmness that anchors him somehow these days.

 

“I’m gonna tell you to do something, and you don’t have to do it. But I think you want to.”

 

He doesn’t even want to hide it behind humor and awkwardness. Softly, he tells her,

 

“Okay.”

 

“Get on all fours.”

 

Derek lays his human hands in the sand, nearly vibrating at the core with the excitement, and it’s like a knot unties in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted this until now, but he’s fully hard.

 

“Can you smell me?” she asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What does it smell like?”

 

“Like your come.”

 

“Taste me.” She says it on a breath, leaning forward. She lifts a leg, sweeping him under her skirt, and brings her cunt down to his mouth.

 

He works her fast and hard with his mouth because they’re not far from public and the beach is open. He can feel the muscles of her thighs shaking as he swirls his tongue fast and rough around her clit. It doesn’t take long for her to come, but when she does, he buzzes in the pit of his belly. He doesn’t take his hands off the sand.

 

She pulls away, checking that the coast is still clear. The exposure is almost enough to overwhelm him. The beach has no walls to hide behind, and on his hands and knees, he’s weaker than ever, but this is what makes his blood boil. This is the vacation from raised haunches and suspicion. He has a blind eye to his back, a fixed gaze at her feet, and a chin splashed with her marking.

 

He keeps his head down until she touches his hair, running her fingers through it, petting him.

 

“Good boy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> bootywolves is my tumblr.


End file.
